


Prägnanz

by recrudescence



Series: Sickness and Shame [3]
Category: Inception
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Daddy Kink, M/M, Medical Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-17
Updated: 2011-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:11:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recrudescence/pseuds/recrudescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames's dealings with Arthur over the last couple weeks have been limited to text messages about how senior year is kicking his arse and, on one occasion, a phone call that ended with Arthur getting himself off in a study carrel in his school library. The poor thing really does deserve a break.</p><p>This is a follow-up to <a href="http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/329202.html">Sickness and Shame</a> and <a href="http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/355753.html">Prognosis</a>. All fics occur in an AU in which Eames is Arthur's pediatrician (Arthur is 17 in the first fic, 18 in the others). <b>Contains medical kink, a couple references to BDSM, and a little bit of awkward daddy kink. I do not actually advocate pediatrician-on-patient action.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	Prägnanz

“Explain this,” is the first thing Eames says when he comes into the exam room.

Arthur only shrugs. He’s trying hard to seem casual, that much is obvious, but Eames is sure he’s trying even harder to ignore the guilt swelling in his stomach. Under all his bravado, Arthur is very much still just a boy who wants to make a good impression. “I don’t feel well.”

Eames narrows his eyes and fixes him with a look that might lead to something much more interesting than a lecture if they were anywhere but here and if he weren’t well on his way to being exceedingly pissed off. “We agreed that work hours are off limits. I know you didn’t forget that. I’m not even your doctor anymore.”

“Um.” Sitting with his legs dangling off the side of the exam table, Arthur studies the toes of his trainers. “My insurance is still the same and I’m not switching to a GP until I’m in college, so actually…”

“You already had your physical for the year,” Eames says sharply. “We _discussed_ this, Arthur—this isn’t a game.”

Arthur just blinks up at him as if he has no clue he’s playing with fire just by showing his face. Which he does, of course; if there’s one thing Eames has come to know about Arthur, it’s that he’s smart as a whip and infinitely more dangerous—more so now than ever, since he’s obviously decided to ignore the part of their deal that forbids bringing Eames’s work life into this. “Yeah, but I haven’t seen you for almost two weeks. I just…I needed to…”

And he trails off, seeming to slump in on himself a bit. Eames slips a hand around to the back of his neck without even thinking about it. “Hey, none of that.”

He rubs slightly, cupping the warmth there, feeling the softness of kiss curls at Arthur’s nape. Arthur leans into the touch right away, pliant and perfect, and Eames can’t resist pressing a quick kiss to his temple. His resistance always seems to crumble around Arthur, which is _exactly_ why Arthur can’t just go waltzing in for a visit whenever the whim hits him. “I’ve missed you too, sweetheart, don’t think I haven’t. But you can’t stay here.”

“I _know_ ,” grumbles Arthur, and then his wiry arms are around Eames’s middle and his face is buried in the crook of his neck and Eames isn’t a big enough bastard to make him let go. Their interactions really have been limited lately, since Arthur’s been swamped with schoolwork and Eames has been swamped with victims of flu season.

“Just wanted to see you.” His voice is a soft sigh against Eames’s jaw.

It’s silly that hearing it makes his heart give a little leap. They aren’t an actual couple, not by any stretch of the imagination, and they’ve been over that, but there are times when Eames thinks their arrangement is something Arthur truly, honestly _needs_. At least with Eames in the picture, he isn’t looking for it elsewhere.

Even now, even though he’s supposed to be annoyed with Arthur, Eames wants to keep his hands on him, strip him out of his pullover and jeans and put his mouth on every delicious inch of him. He settles for thumbing the lock on the door and stroking down his cheek and throat until the collar of Arthur’s shirt gets in the way. There’s a cut on the underside of his chin, evidence that Arthur’s been stubbornly shaving even though he can easily get away with not doing it on a daily basis, his cheeks still baby-smooth even by the end of the day. Eames envies him that a little, since _he_ always seems to sprout five o’clock shadow almost as soon as he sets his razor down.

One of Arthur’s hands plucks at the back of his lab coat when Eames presses his lips to that little red mark. “You look really hot in this, by the way.”

“Flattery,” Eames says, “isn’t getting you anywhere.” There’s no point in trying to sound stern while he’s nosing into Arthur’s hair and wrapping his arms around him, so he doesn’t bother.

To a casual viewer, it would look like a chaste, albeit ill-timed, embrace even though Eames is intensely aware that Arthur’s hips are shoving against his a little too hard to be entirely platonic. It’s only a matter of seconds before Arthur’s skinny legs are trying to twine around him and Eames is ready to bear him down onto the table, spread his thighs, and suck him until he sobs, which is exactly why he extricates himself while he still can.

“You really should go.”

Arthur grimaces, but he’s nodding. “I won’t do it again, I promise, but I really need to—”

Eames lays a finger across his lips, removing it before Arthur can dart his tongue across the tip. “Let me tell you what you need to do. You’re going to go home to your mother and get yourself something to eat. You’re going to get a start on the sodding history project you’ve been putting off. And in exactly three hours you’re going to be in my bed. Then you’ll help me find out just exactly what’s making you feel so out of sorts. Are we clear on this?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, looking delighted and adorable, trying to latch onto him all over again. Eames kisses his forehead, doesn’t dare kiss him on the mouth since he won’t want to stop and it doesn’t take more than a few good kisses for Arthur to start to come unraveled.

“This,” he drops his voice to a whisper and cups a hand over the front of Arthur’s jeans, allowing himself one last touch, “you leave for me. Are we clear on that as well?”

It’s immensely gratifying to see Arthur speechless for once.

\---

Arthur might not be particularly extroverted, but he isn’t afraid to go straight for the throat. The morning after he spent the night for the first time, he’d wandered naked into the bathroom and then come padding right back out all of three seconds later, claiming he couldn’t figure out how to operate the shower and could Eames please help him?

And Eames had sighed and gotten in with him, soaped him up and jerked him off and let Arthur melt against him as he washed his hair, then taken him back to bed. He’d been able to draw at least one line, since Arthur had been pleading to be fucked again but Eames didn’t want his memory of his first time to be a painful one. Arthur had grudgingly settled for letting Eames finger-fuck him even though he was sore from the previous night, squirming and panting and swearing all the while he liked everything Eames did to him and never thought he’d get to have any of it. Eames had seriously thought of throwing caution to the winds and licking up into him instead, bending Arthur’s knees up over his head and forcing his tongue into the pink-clean little hole.

The rest of Arthur’s visits have had a similar theme to them.

By contrast, his dealings with Arthur over the last couple weeks have been limited to text messages about how senior year is kicking his arse and, on one occasion, a phone call that ended with Arthur getting himself off in a study carrel in his school library. The poor thing really does deserve a break.

At the end of the day, Eames takes his lab coat with him when he leaves. It’s due for a trip to the cleaners anyway.

\---

When Eames arrives home, Arthur seems to have situated himself quite comfortably in his bed, barefoot but otherwise fully dressed. There’s a pair of ludicrously large headphones over his ears, a MacBook on his lap, a few textbooks spread out on either side of him, and he looks for all the world like he actually lives there. Once again, it occurs to Eames that he’s let Arthur take advantage of his spare key so often he might as well let him keep it for his own. But that conversation, like many others, is best left for a later time.

The headphones mean Arthur doesn’t even notice Eames until he’s practically at the foot of the bed. “Listening to anything good there?” Eames doesn’t know why he even bothers asking, since Arthur unfailingly informs him he won’t have heard of it and he’s just as unfailingly correct.

This time, Arthur doesn’t answer him at all, just sits bolt upright with his eyes flying wide open and whips off his headphones like they’re on fire.

“I have to say,” Eames continues, “I’m a little amazed you kept your clothes on.”

Arthur is staring at him with some undisguised amazement of his own. Eames took the liberty of bringing a few other things along when he slipped back into the lab coat and it feels a bit odd to be all kitted out like this in his bedroom. He’s not sure if the stethoscope around his neck is a bit too much, but it’s already there and he’s determined to run with it.

“Didn’t trust myself to take ’em off and not…” Without breaking eye contact, Arthur waves a hand in the general direction of his groin. “That seemed like a bad idea.”

“Wise decision.” Eames reaches, stroking his back, squeezing his nape. “You listen so well.” He’s tried this before, setting small conditions to see if Arthur obeys. Arthur seems to like it, though Eames isn’t sure he’s aware of this. “Come here now, you’ve been waiting long enough.”

And Arthur clambers on his knees to the end of the bed and kisses him and kisses him, fingers winding into his hair and moans already trying to rush out of his mouth, all wound up just from this. He doesn’t seem to be complaining about the stethoscope or anything else, his breathing deep and eyes dark. The school supplies can’t get relegated to the night table fast enough.

“Where does it hurt?” Eames asks softly, passing a hand over Arthur’s heated forehead once he’s made his way round to the side of the bed and coaxed him into settling back down.

Arthur uncurls his hand from Eames’s tie, sinking into a sitting position with a sigh. “Everywhere.”

He draws a glove from his pocket, starts pulling it on, and Arthur frowns. “Really?”

“You’re not my only patient today,” Eames says firmly. “Open your mouth for me,” he urges, working a finger between Arthur’s teeth and pressing down with it the way he would a tongue depressor.

Arthur’s tongue flutters against it, hot even through the latex. Eames adds another, deftly taking the penlight from his other pocket and shining it with his free hand. Arthur gives a muffled sound of surprise. “You look just fine here, no inflammation of any sort. No pain?”

“Uh-uh,” Arthur says once his mouth is free again. He’s already flushed all down his neck, as quick to respond as ever.

\---

He has a lovely mouth, both aesthetically and medically speaking, pink and healthy and all parts where they should be. Eames could spend—has spent—ages just curled up with him and kissing it. He does nothing of the sort just now, instead shifting up until he’s kneeling behind Arthur on the bed. “Tell me at any time if something feels painful, please.”

It’s standard exam-room chatter, nothing he hasn’t said to a thousand patients without a second thought, but heat rockets through his body all the same. The first time he ever made Arthur come was during a routine exam and now he’s deliberately perverting that even more. Eames grits his teeth and judiciously undoes his topmost shirt button. Arthur, oblivious, just wriggles right back against him until the warm line of his back is flush with Eames’s front.

When Eames switches out his penlight for an otoscope, Arthur twists round to stare at him, looking rather impressed and also rather like he’s waiting for a full-grown kangaroo to spring out of Eames’s pockets next. Eames casually cups the side of his face with one gloved hand, easing the tip of the scope into his ear with the other. He doesn’t bother visualizing, though he does give the lobe a brief tug when he’s done. “I’m going to need you to keep your face forward, please. Other side now, there’s a good lad.”

Surprisingly, Arthur doesn’t object to being called a lad.

Eames sets the otoscope aside when he’s done and starts massaging Arthur’s temples, scalp, ascertaining there are no nodes or bumps, no evident sebaceous cysts when Eames glides the tips of his fingers behind Arthur’s ears. “Nice and smooth, that’s just as it should be.”

His assessment of Arthur’s lymph nodes turns into more of a spur-of-the-moment neck massage as he feels over the positions of them, stroking down his sternocleidomastoids, his throat, feeling Arthur’s pulse throbbing under the pads of his fingers. Almost immediately, Arthur’s body starts relaxing back against him even more. Eames leans forward to check and finds that his eyes are closed and his cheeks are flooded with pink.

When Arthur speaks, his voice is low and sounds a little dazed. “Dunno what you’re doing, but it feels nice.”

“Means you’re normal, that’s all.” Letting his fingers knead over the posterior cervical nodes for an especially long time, tracing the curve of Arthur’s nape with his hands the way he so often has with his mouth. “If you like it that much, going to med school means you have to get used to touching people in all sorts of ways, and some programs will pay you to be a testing dummy for students looking for bodies to practice on.”

“I don’t think so,” says Arthur. “I’ve kind of been seeing someone, not sure he’d go for that.”

Once again, Eames’s midsection gives an alarming jump, but if nothing else he’s an expert at keeping his hands steady. “Let’s see what they’re teaching you in school these days.” As segues go, it’s not the most artful one he’s ever uttered, but at least he sounds conversational instead of stunned. “Do you know what preauricular means?”

“Latin, pre, before…then auricle, ear, so something in front of the ears. Lymph nodes?” Eames lightly presses them with his index fingers in confirmation. Arthur tilts his head back and smiles cheekily. “And that means posterior auricular would be the ones behind the ears.”

“Clever,” Eames praises him, and works his way down the chain of nodes to the base of Arthur’s throat, then slips under the neck of his shirt to reach the supraclavicular nodes. If he spends a trifle too long mapping the graceful slant of his collarbone, no one objects. “I’m going to listen to the pulse in your neck now; apologies in advance if this is a little chilly.”

Which is a lie: Eames hasn’t made any effort at all to warm up his stethoscope and relishes it when a slight shudder ripples up Arthur’s spine as the cool metal touches his skin for the first time.

“Shouldn’t I…” Arthur’s head lolls back against his shoulder, eyes at half-mast. “Should I take off my clothes?”

“If you hurt everywhere, maybe you shouldn’t be doing it by yourself,” Eames says reasonably. “Arms up.” And then he’s working Arthur’s jumper over his head, undoing the button-down beneath it and divesting him of that as well. For his part, Arthur shimmies out of his jeans and pants in record time, shoving them off to the side and stretching out on his back when Eames slides off the bed.

\---

Something Eames has picked up on is that Arthur seems to like being naked while Eames is clothed, possibly something about the vulnerability or about having Eames dote on him, which he’s happy to do. Eames regularly has to mentally give himself a slap and remember that Arthur’s still learning what he likes, but treating him like something precious is one thing he’s unreserved about.

Seeing Arthur laid out like this is nothing new, but it takes Eames’s breath away. The long lines of his body are bare and slim, rosiness patching his skin and his cock curving up towards his stomach, already dampened at the tip. It makes Eames want to touch him everywhere, to tell him he’s beautiful, but that isn’t in the script.

Instead, he inconspicuously presses the end of the stethoscope to the metal bedframe, chilling it again, and then places it directly over one of Arthur’s already hard nipples.

Arthur grips the blankets and whines.

Standing at the side of the bed, ostensibly listening to his pulse, Eames does his best impression of a consummate professional. “Ease your breathing, if you can. Your heart’s beating so fast.”

“Trying,” Arthur chokes out, his color high, his hands fluttering to touch whatever they can.

Despite the shock, he’s still hard, narrow chest rising and falling too fast, lips parted and upturned for a kiss that Eames doesn’t give him, not yet. It’s been too long since Eames last saw him sprawled out in bed like this. There are only so many times Arthur can stay over, since his mother prefers him at home on school nights. “I know you are,” Eames assures him. “You’re doing such a good job for me, sweetheart. Deep breath and hold it for me now, there you go.”

He’s deliberately slow about pressing the scope to the four quadrants of Arthur’s abdomen, having him draw a series of deep breaths and watching his stomach press out. Eames wants to kiss it, but sadly that isn’t part of the game just now. Arthur is lean without being bony, and even though no one would ever call him fleshy he’s still substantial enough for Eames to want to bite into him, suck and kiss over the soft portion of flesh below his belly button until Arthur is whimpering and gripping his hair and trying to force Eames’s mouth low enough to suckle his cock instead.

He continues his examination, daring to pinch a bit at a nipple, watching as Arthur’s cock drips from that alone. “There’s some tenderness here, isn’t there? Do you know the cause of it?”

Arthur hesitates. Eames lightly brushes a fingertip over the other. “Honesty, Arthur.”

“Biting. I wanted it.” Eames kisses the little bud of skin to reward him for telling the truth, rubs down his chest and belly. Arthur goes curving into his touch with the litheness of adolescence, effortlessly sensual. “They get sore sometimes because I pinch myself there to make it feel like biting, but it’s not as good.”

That gives Eames pause, more so than the fact that he’s battling the urge to rut against the side of the bloody bed just to take the edge off. “And would you say…is your partner considerate?”

Cautious, splaying a hand over Arthur’s ribs and percussing until the resulting sound is tympanic. He goes through all the correct motions, massaging his middle as if checking the size and placement of his spleen, not sure whether to expect an answer. When he stops touching, Arthur moans in protest and Eames brushes back his hair. “Did that hurt you? Any rebound tenderness?”

“No, it was good. Didn’t want you to stop.” Then he’s picking up Eames’s hand and placing it back over his navel. His cock spills a stream of precome when Eames resumes rubbing there, more intimately than a typical physical would call for.

He doesn’t think Arthur’s going to answer his earlier question, but then he wets his lips and hazards a glance at Eames. “He’s great. But sometimes I think he’s too careful. Like he’s worried he’ll hurt me or something. But I’d like anything if he did it to me. I’ve told him.”

“Does he treat you well?”

“Yeah. Always. He’s much, much, _much_ older so maybe it’s the good manners of a bygone era.”

Eames steps out of character long enough to slap the inside of his thigh and mouth the sting away. “Really, now.”

Arthur yelps, then seems to recollect his thoughts. “But I…it’s always me, you know?” He falters when Eames’s tongue curls against him. “I have to be the one who starts everything. He never does. It’s like he doesn’t trust himself. Or maybe he doesn’t want to.”

Eames swallows. “Maybe he doesn’t want you to feel pressured into anything.”

“He’s got cuffs. Other stuff, too.” The remark seems to come out of nowhere, but Eames can’t say he wasn’t expecting Arthur to mention this at some point or another. Arthur notices everything, must have gotten a glimpse sometime while Eames was rummaging for a condom; that or he’s been rummaging through Eames’s things himself, which is something they’ll have to chat about later.

With a droll sort of dignity, Arthur lifts himself up onto his elbows. “And I really, really want him to use them on me, but I think he might say no if I asked. I think about it a lot.”

\---

It would be ridiculous for Eames to say he’d never once thought about the same thing. That he’s not thinking about it _now_ , even though he’s been trying to take things slowly and always remain cognizant of Arthur’s age. Eames would shoot himself in the foot before dragging Arthur into acts he isn’t ready for or has no interest in. He clears his suddenly dry throat and looks Arthur right in the eye as if he isn’t imagining tying him to the bed, isn’t imagining fitting a spreader bar between his knobby knees, and going down on him for hours until he’s shaking and oversensitive and can barely get hard from it and _still_ begging for Eames to make him come just one more time. “Interesting.”

Arthur looks guarded, as if he’s trying to gauge whether he’s said too much. That he’s saying it at all must mean it’s been on his mind for some time. And whose fault is that, really? Maybe Eames should have been less protective, should have asked. “Tell me more.” For the first time, he leans in and steals a kiss from Arthur’s lips, brief and comforting. “What else has been worrying you?”

When Arthur doesn’t answer right away, Eames occupies himself by drifting touches down his legs, noting absently that he can still detect a strong pulse through his tibialis posterior. Arthur drops back down to the bedding and bends one leg in, exposing himself. “Fuck, I don’t know…”

“Go on.” Eames bends, graces a kiss to the side of his anklebone.

“I don’t _know_ ,” Arthur repeats, more vehemently this time. “It feels like he’s holding back because of me, but he really doesn’t have to.” He pauses, writhes when Eames touches his scrotum with both gloved hands. “I even,” voice catching around a gasp, then deepening again, “I even bought a vibrator.”

Now it’s Eames’s turn to pause.

“I haven’t…haven’t tried it out yet because I want him to be the first one to use it on me, but I don’t know if he’d even want—”

“Trust me,” Eames says. “He’d want.”

“Um.” Arthur stares, deerlike. “Oh. Shit. Wow, okay.”

Eames gives him a cheery smile and swipes a thumb over the head of his cock. “Don’t be afraid to initiate these conversations. You never know what you might learn. Keep still now, please.”

\---

To Arthur’s credit, he tries. Eames has both thumbs on him now, holding the rest of his cock steady with his fingertips; when he uses his thumbs to draw the slit gently apart, Arthur’s entire frame jolts as if he’s been shocked. Eames soothes him with all manner of murmured nonsensicalities, pressing him open a bit more, supposedly checking for any irregularities around the tiny opening and actually marveling at the way Arthur squirms and shudders and drips in response. His flush is deepening even more, though he seems unaware of how his body goes rigid and his breath goes high and quick.

In the little black book of filthy Arthur-related observations Eames stores under a false bottom in a hidden drawer in the back of his mind, he’s noted down that Arthur likes being toyed with there, that he likes Eames dragging a fingernail across his slit or teasing at it with the tip of his tongue, would probably be driven mad if Eames were ever to ease something inside him _through_ it. But that isn’t a conversation he’s ready to have, might not even be a concept of pleasure Arthur’s aware exists at all.

“Wonderful.” He’s down to a whisper now, since it seems almost impolite to risk shattering the moment by speaking too loudly. “There you go, you look perfectly fine.”

Arthur just emits a tiny, helpless keening sound in response. His back is arching, his sharp little hipbones standing out in high relief, and Eames wants to suck and bite them until they’re raw, until Arthur is thrashing on the bed and begging for Eames to put his mouth on his cock instead and suck him dry. He’s leaking steadily now, a thin line of fluid suspended between the tip of his erection and his belly, and it would be no trouble at all for Eames to dip his head down and lick if off.

He turns his attention to kneading over the femoral artery instead, letting his fingers rub where Arthur’s thigh meets his groin without actually touching his cock. Even though he’s stiflingly overheated inside his clothes and Arthur’s garbled litany of _please, fuck, please_ when Eames takes his tightened scrotum into his hand a second time is no help at all, Eames somehow keeps himself from stepping back long enough to shed the lab coat. “God, if you could see yourself…”

His fingers are still damp from before, sliding easily up the underside of Arthur’s cock. He makes a bit of a show of observing how slick they are and asking Arthur he’s always this wet, which of course he already knows the answer to.

Arthur squirms, failing to stifle another whimper. “Yeah, can’t help it.” Spreading his legs, feet to the mattress, hefting his hips up enough for Eames to catch a teasing glimpse of his arsehole. “Dr. Eames, please, come on, I’m—it _hurts_.”

Ludicrously, being called that by Arthur still makes Eames want to hide under the bed clutching his doctorate for dear life. “I know it does, love, I know.”

Arthur’s face is burning everywhere his lips touch it, his mouth opening wantonly for Eames’s kisses and promises. “We’re nearly there; hold on just a bit longer for me, I know you can.” He helps him onto his side to palpate the position of his kidneys, watching the shifting of muscle under sweat-beaded skin when Arthur wriggles and tries to hide his face in the covers, only relenting when Eames gives him a brisk tap at the base of his spine. “On your feet.”

“What,” Arthur says. He sounds blank, like he’s sure he must have misheard. There’s a damp spot on the duvet from where his erection fleetingly brushed against it and his eyes are practically all pupil. Eames can only imagine how badly he must want to come.

“Did you know,” Eames inquires conversationally, “that most boys your age have only been tested once for scoliosis?”

That seems to get him back on track. “I’m not a boy.”

“Ten years ago, you were in third grade.”

Arthur smiles sweetly. “Second.”

“Piss off,” Eames suggests, and gives him a pinch on one arse cheek. “Now touch your damn toes already.”

\---

It’s a disgustingly transparent ploy, having him bend over beside the bed as Eames compliments him on his flexibility and performs a pornographic version of an Adams test.

“Is this uncomfortable for you?” Eames asks, pulling open a drawer and riffling around for the lube

Arthur can’t see him, but just the sound is enough to have him trembling. “No…” His voice breaks. Eames is a terrible person for relishing that. “Can I stand now?”

“Of course.” Eames flattens a hand against the small of his back, heedless of the way his cock presses against the crest of Arthur’s skinny hip. “Now spread your legs and bend again for me.”

The first finger inside him makes Arthur’s legs shake. Eames keeps a steadying hand on his back and can’t say if it’s more to help Arthur keep his balance or to help himself stay upright. “God, you’re so bloody tight—breathe for me, Arthur, let— _fuck_.”

Incredibly, Arthur bends even more, legs planted firmly and palms flat to the floor. “ _Eames_.”

Only one finger and he’s already quivering, head lagging forward and the rest of him trying to rock back, trying to ask for more even though he can’t seem to find the words. When Eames slips it back out of him so he can strip the gloves off with his teeth, fumble open his belt and zip, the moan that rips itself from Arthur’s throat is painful to hear.

“What are you— _don’t_ , please don’t, need it, what the fuck are you—” and then Eames has both bare hands wrapped round his hips, has the hard length of his cock pressed right up against the seam of Arthur’s arse, blisteringly hot even through the dampened cotton of his boxers. “ _Oh_ ,” says Arthur, and shoves himself back. “ _Fuck_ , Eames, come on, just—”

He’s trying to stand again but can’t seem to find the coordination. Eames hauls him back up just long enough to slick a kiss against his hot red mouth and bear down on him all over again, this time over the side of the bed. Arthur’s cries are only slightly muffled by the mattress as Eames grinds his prick into the cleft of his arse, then presses at the rim of his entrance with two fingers this time.

“ _In_ ,” Arthur orders hoarsely, and in one smooth movement Eames buries them both inside him, hilt-deep in searing heat and tight-clenching muscle and _Arthur_. “ _Can’t_ ,” Arthur chokes out. “Need—gonna—”

“Do it, then,” Eames hisses, and crooks his fingers. “Come for me like this.”

He does.

\---

Arthur, when he turns and drapes his arms around Eames’s neck, is a blissful, jelly-legged mess and his cock is still half-hard. Eames has him lie down on the less rumpled half of the bed, lets him burrow against his chest until his breathing evens out, then wipes him clean and finally takes a moment to step out of his clothes. It’s a miracle he hasn’t sweated clear through the lab coat.

“Will you be all right on your own for two minutes while I get us some water?”

“Two minutes is fine,” Arthur mumbles into the pillow. “Two weeks, though, ’s too fucking long.”

He hasn’t moved a centimeter by the time Eames returns. It takes a bit of cajoling before he sits up enough to drink at all, but Eames doesn’t let up until he’s satisfied that dehydration is no longer an issue. Then he folds Arthur up in his arms, holding him as he settles back down, once or twice catching an earlobe between his teeth and suckling at it just to make Arthur squawk and bat at him. And for a warm, slow span of time, even though he still needs to come and Arthur seems like he might be ready to drop off, that’s enough.

Eames is starting to think of slipping off for a wank and leaving Arthur to his nap when he turns over.

“The stuff you said,” Arthur sounds tentative even though the way he presses at Eames’s cock is anything but, “was that for real? Because I know you’ve got some kinky shit stashed away.”

Without ceremony, Eames rolls his eyes, rolls over, and reaches into the lower portion of the bedside table. “Should’ve know this would come up, shouldn’t I?” The aforementioned cuffs are soft padded leather, and he chucks them onto the mattress and lets Arthur look.

“We’re not using these any time soon,” he says simply. “It can be good to start small. For instance, if I were to have you put your hands over your head and keep them there—”

Immediately, Arthur lays his arms on the pillow above his head and grips his own wrists. Despite the water he just gulped down, Eames’s mouth goes dry. “Christ, Arthur.”

A faint frown appears on his face. “You said—”

“I did, you’re right,” Eames assures him. Running thumbs up the stretch of his ribs, grazing the hollow of an armpit, the soft bristle of hair. “You do so well at listening when the mood suits you.”

“I can keep listening.” He’s not at all anxious, a bit wide-eyed but still solemn, snapping his hips up against nothing while Eames brushes his hair away from his face.

“In olden days, before anesthetics and proper sedation methods, they’d strap you to the bed to keep you from writhing about. Fortunately, we’ve moved beyond that.” He hesitates, tapping under Arthur’s chin to ensure he meets his eyes. “You’d need a safeword, something to say if you want to stop, something you’re not likely to say in bed.”

Arthur hums, pressing up when Eames curves a hand over his hip. “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”

Eames laughs and bends to kiss beside his navel. “Maybe something that rolls off the tongue a bit more easily.”

“Like what?” Arthur wrinkles his nose. “Rigatoni? Delaware? Daddy?”

He sounds completely lighthearted, but Eames suddenly feels like he’s had the air punched out of him. He keeps his face ducked out of sight and bites lightly at Arthur’s stomach.

“Or,” Arthur says slowly, “is that something you wouldn’t actually mind hearing?” There’s something disturbingly gleeful about his tone. “Holy shit.”

“This,” Eames begins, tries to swallow, tries again, “this isn’t—”

“So calling you doctor isn’t okay, but _daddy_ is totally fine? Because that makes so much sense.”

“This isn’t the time for—”

Arthur’s smirk is merciless and devastating and leveled directly at his groin. “Um, yeah, actually, it totally is. Unless this is all a big misunderstanding and you just really, _really_ like rigatoni.”

Eames decides the best way to shut him up is by reaching for more lube. “That vibrator of yours. You brought it with you, didn’t you?”

“Backpack,” Arthur says thickly, after a beat.

It only takes a moment for him to remove the thing from Arthur’s schoolbag where it’s been dumped on the floor near the bedside table. It’s nothing fancy, sleek and midsized and a fetching dark red that matches Arthur’s cheeks astoundingly well. “When did you decide to make this investment, pray tell?”

“Been thinking about it for a while. It came in the mail yesterday.”

“Is that why you really paid me a visit today?”

“Part of it,” Arthur admits glibly. “But I would’ve just made up another excuse if it wasn’t.” He angles his hips upward a touch. “And, I mean, I probably don’t even know how to use it, so you should really show me how.”

Eames snorts. “Right, then. For the sake of the exam, let’s say this is now 1902 and you’re being treated for hysteria, shall we?”

Arthur just parts his thighs and flashes those schoolboy dimples at him. “Whatever you want, doctor.”

Eames lets that go by, just this once.

\---

Even with one orgasm under his belt, Arthur reflexively tightens up when Eames’s slippery fingers press back inside him. “Do you engage in intercourse regularly?”

“Not lately,” Arthur snorts.

“Safe? All the right tests taken care of?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says absently, then seems to lose patience. “Eames, just put it in.”

Eames is almost tempted to chuck this so-called hysteria treatment out the window and spank his bum red for pulling a trick like he had by showing up at work. Maybe sometime he’ll mention this to Arthur, see how it goes over. For now, while Eames is teasing the rounded tip of the vibrator against him without ever quite entering, putting a stop to anything would just be counterproductive.

“Think you can keep your hands above your head for this?” He gives a little push to the base of it and watches the way Arthur’s body clamps down, tries to keep him out, then just as automatically tries to relax and make it easier for him.

The tips of Arthur’s fingers are digging into his forearms, which are still flat to the pillow. “Yeah.” He doesn’t sound or look all that certain, but this is new and Eames isn’t going to push it.

“Keep them just like that if you can, there’s a love.” He presses it a little deeper inside him, also pressing a palm to his belly, feeling it tremble when Arthur gives a shaky groan. “More? Can you handle the whole thing?”

Arthur arches, silent but so eloquent, and it’s all the answer Eames needs.

Then he tries to turn on the vibrator and absolutely nothing happens.

Eames blinks, waits, twists the little dial, and tries once more. “Tell me you didn’t forget to put batteries in this.”

“Oh, shit.” Arthur, in addition to looking about half a very frustrating second away from coming, looks like he’s been clubbed over the head. “No, fuck, I just flipped one of them backwards because I was worried about accidentally switching it on.”

He sounds so fed up with himself that Eames can’t help flashing a bit of a smirk at him. “Always thinking ahead. Being responsible is such a trial, isn’t it?”

As it turns out, Arthur’s not so far gone that he’s forgotten how to glare, but it all goes to hell when Eames lets his fingers play over the base of the toy.

He draws it out, turns the topmost battery the right way round, then eases it back into Arthur’s body rather less gently than before. This time, when he turns the dial, Arthur clenches and whines and Eames can actually _feel_ the hum of the vibrator through him when he pushes a palm against the lower portion of his stomach, has to grip the base of his own cock with his other hand because he can’t count on himself not to lose it from that alone.

If Arthur has any illusions of Eames being able to hold off for longer than a minute or two at this point, he's setting himself up for a spectacular disappointment. Arthur with his lashes damp and dark against his cheeks, smothering a curse in Eames’s neck when Eames bends to suckle at the edge of his ear, thrusting up hard and whining when their stomachs slip damply together.

“Wish I’d known about this earlier.” Eames thumbs the vibrations up a bit higher, nudges in nice and close so his lips brush Arthur’s ear with each rough-whispered syllable. “Maybe I should have had you slip it into yourself and wait for me that way.”

Arthur’s eyes roll back, squeeze closed. "F- _fuck_. Can't say that or..."

And Eames is being a little cruel by talking at this point, since what else is Arthur supposed to do in response to that other than clamp down around the vibrator and come right there? It's been too long, _much_ too long for someone Arthur’s age, but having him here against him and losing control just that easily has Eames giddy on mingled pride and arousal—Arthur brought this over because of _him_ —and he can’t shut up.

“What do you think? If I had you lie there, stretched out and filled and waiting for me to come fuck you properly, would you like that?” Skimming fingers along the straining curve of Arthur’s cock, he angles the vibrator upward and proceeds to get slammed with vertigo when he realizes that he can feel the hint of its shape inside Arthur when he palms his belly again. “You’d be so good for me, wouldn’t you? Waiting for me and wishing you could rub one out, spreading your legs and clenching so tight to try and get enough to make you come, but still keeping your hands off yourself until you were allowed.”

Arthur is nodding, sweating all over again and gripping hard at Eames’s hair, apparently having forgotten he’s not supposed to be using his arms. Eames takes his hand off the toy but leaves it inside him, trusts his body to contract around it hard enough to keep it in place, then gathers him close, kisses his mouth even though it’s more of a train wreck than a kiss. “You’ll come without being touched at all, won’t you, sweetheart? Let me see that. Show me how you’ll come like this, fucked open without a hand on you.”

“No,” grits Arthur.

Eames freezes.

His eyes are scarcely open, but he’s shaking his head fiercely. “Want you instead.”

He’s already reaching to slide the vibrator out of himself. Eames’s fingers instinctively slip up between his thighs, toying with the slickness streaking them. “Eames,” Arthur hisses, “I swear to God, if you don’t—”

Eames doesn’t catch the rest of that. He grapples with a condom, squeezes a ludicrous amount of lube over himself, and then Arthur is holding himself open still more with one damp hand hooked behind his knee and his hips are rolling down to meet him the instant Eames aligns the head of his cock with his arsehole and the next thing Eames knows he’s encased in Arthur’s body up to the hilt.

Arthur lets out something between a growl and a plea and Eames can’t form a coherent thought to save his life.

Eames loves making him come like this, loves that he doesn’t even need a hand on him in order to come at all, that Arthur’s slight and limber enough to be manhandled however Eames pleases. He loves that Arthur can’t ever keep quiet when he’s this close to the edge, crying out as Eames pounds into him, letting himself get pulled up into Eames’s lap. Eames has an arm around his waist and a hand jerking his cock, has his head bowed and his mouth sucking a mark into Arthur’s bony shoulder. He doesn’t utter more than a low groan as he spills into him, eclipsed by way Arthur wails and slackens in his arms when he convulses and slicks his abdomen with come a second time.

When he stretches out, sticky and spent, and lets Arthur curl up against him, it’s as if they’ve never been apart at all. Eames can’t decide whether this is more comforting or unsettling, then decides not to dwell on that at all.

\---

“So, did we cure you?” he asks after a little while.

“Nope,” Arthur answers. He’s rediscovered the cuffs and seems to be learning them by touch, lying there with closed eyes and curiously roving hands. “I think we should compare different techniques over an extended period of time.” He opens his eyes then, glancing first at the cuffs and then over at Eames. “You wouldn’t hold back any of this stuff if I were ten years older.”

“You’re right,” Eames says simply. “I wouldn’t, because by then your frontal lobe would be fully developed and I’d have less reason to worry about warping your impressionable sensibilities.”

“But you’re not warping me,” Arthur insists, his voice quiet. “Eames, I mean it. You’re not.”

“I really think you might kill me someday; you know that, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” says Arthur, rolling onto his stomach. His mother thinks he’s sleeping over at a friend’s, which isn’t actually a lie, and Eames really oughtn’t be thinking about Arthur’s mother while her son is sprawled naked in bed beside him and fondling bondage accessories. “But only with little deaths.”

Eames settles a hand against the small of his back without conscious thought, rubbing small circles there. “Smartarse.”

For a long while, Arthur just dozes and leaves him to it, smiling sleepily. “That feels good, daddy.”

And Eames’s breath spikes into his lungs like ice water.

Arthur smugly wriggles over, showing his stomach, his skinny body smeared with sweat and come. “I knew you liked it.”

Eames can’t protest, and Arthur distracts him excellently by snuggling in for a kiss, tongue slipping inside his mouth, hands slipping down his back. “Didn’t you miss me, daddy?” Pinching at one of Eames’s nipples, whispering against his lips, “Didn’t you want to put your cock in me again?” which must be a line he heard in a porn video somewhere, but Eames is helpless anyway. Arthur licks at his bottom lip. “Come on, just admit it. You don’t get to pretend like you’re totally vanilla just because of my fucking frontal lobe.”

“Bloody shameless, that’s what you are,” Eames tsks, neither confirming nor denying anything, and nips at his chin.

“Yep,” Arthur says cheerfully, sliding a leg over Eames’s hip and humming a bit when Eames’s hand trails up the inside of his thigh. “Just a little boy with an undeveloped frontal lobe, remember? I was in second grade just ten years ago. Please finger me again?”

Eames is way ahead of him, already pressing two of them in up to the second knuckle. “We’re going to have a talk about a few things,” he murmurs against Arthur’s temple, more for effect than anything else. “But I’m sure you’re aware of that.”

“Oh, I know.” Arthur is laughing, shrugging, looking at him with that too-smart-for-his-own-good gaze, unbearably attractive and squirming in Eames’s arms and altogether making a nuisance of himself in the most charming way possible. “But not now.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Prägnanz](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9235640) by [sophinisba](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophinisba/pseuds/sophinisba)




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